Sacajawea (61 page)

The precipitation had not come by the end of the next day. But the temperature dropped by nightfall, and the men knew they would sleep fully clothed in their blankets because the exertion of staking out the horses, hunting the few spare sticks of firewood, and setting up camp caused them to sweat easily. They felt weak with hunger. The small fire would not dry out sweat-dampened clothing and also make the watered-down portable soup. It they took off their damp clothes they would freeze up, and next morning they would never get them back on.

During the night Sacajawea caught Pomp’s nose gently between her thumb and forefinger, her palm over his mouth, to stop his crying. Her milk was not rich enough. When he began to twist for breath, she let go a little—but only a little—and at the first sign of another cry, she shut off his air again. She did not want him to wake the others. She crooned ever so softly as she did this, a growing song of the Agaidükas, to make the boy straight-limbed, strong of body and heart. She held him tightly, keeping him warm; feeling that his fingernails were long enough to scratch, she bit off each nail to the tip of his fingers.

The next morning, Old Toby and Captain Lewis walked to the top of a nearby ridge to survey the route with the good spyglass. There was nothing to be seen but rock and steep terrain. The ground was bare, except in the gullies, where a light powder snow had drifted some days back.

The constant climb was treacherous, and the horses had a rough time of it. For three more days, the expedition faced cold and wind that did not let up once.

Sacajawea confided to Charbonneau, “I must have circles under my eyes and a bend to my shoulders, like poor Willow Bud in the Season of Snow. It is cramps from being constantly hungry.”

Charbonneau’s belly contracted, and he yelled, “Damn you! That kind of talk will bring cramps to everyone. Shut your mouth!” He pulled off a leather whang from his sleeve. “Chew on this.”

She turned from him and sniffed, pulling the sharp smell of a wind-tormented mountain cedar deep into her lungs. At least the smell made her feel good. In a way it did; but in another way it didn’t. It made her think of food. Her mouth watered as she thought of the sweet ground corn of the Mandans—she could lap up the meal and drink a little water from a gourd, hold the meal and water in her mouth and knead it with her tongue while she rode. The thought didn’t do her belly any good. She gave it up and pushed her horse on ahead of Charbonneau to ride at the side of Old Toby.

Ahead, Captain Lewis had halted at a spring before angling up the next ridge. The horses pulled at some sparse yellow grass. Then the rocks on the trail shuddered as a packhorse snorted and rolled down the embankment. The trail didn’t shake, but it seemed to as another packhorse followed the first, going sideways down the bank. They were hurt, but not badly. With a rope, several men had them back on the trail. Their packs were still in good shape. But before making night camp, the pack on the horse carrying the prized desk of Captain Clark loosened and caused the horse to misstep. He rolled forty yards down from the trail and lodged against a stunted juniper. The horse was not hurt, but the desk was smashed. Captain Clark insisted that the pieces from the desk be packed up so that he could repair it at the first opportunity.

The worst part of seeing the horses back on the trail was the feeling that if they had been hurt badly, they could have been used for food. Sacajawea had not got it through her head until now that the white men would not shoot a packhorse, unless he was in total misery.

Before moving on, Captain Lewis looked down into the blue, shadowy valley they’d angled away from. It faded out of sight into the dim haze of twilight, and there seemed to Lewis a feeling of mystery about it that he could not catch and set down in words in his journal. The sight moved him. He thought there was a softness to it, almost as if he could feel the breath of the Pacific coming from over the mountains. It drew him like a dream, like a place he’d seen before.

They all rode on in silence, hoping to make a few more miles before night came down upon them. Coming over the side of a slope, they rode down into some fallen timber that was hard to cross.

Day by day, Old Toby picked their way of ascent. He was an excellent guide, for he knew how to read the ridges and gullies and he was gracious about pointing out things of natural interest—the winter colors of the saskatoon, a cluster of thin-stalked, yellowed mountain laurel, the gray of the deer moss. He knew much and enjoyed talking Shoshoni with Sacajawea, who also had Indian eyes. For it was she who first spotted the creamy white object that seemed to be no different from the surrounding rocks.

“Chief Red Hair,” she called.

“Yes?”

“There is a sheep not far, up in the rocks. Old Toby says he will be needed to keep away frostbite.”

“There!” Captain Clark said. “I see him.”

“I see him, too,” answered Lewis. “He’s nearly a mile away. I don’t know about frostbite, but I’m sure he can take away our bellyaches. Drouillard, come here. What do you think?”

“I could go up,” he said, already measuring the distances and looking to the priming of his rifle. The powder grains lay there, crisp and dry. He closed the pan and gave the butt a mild jolt on a root to snug the charge down in the barrel.

“See that overhanging rock? If that moves, half the mountain will start rolling. Watch yourself,” warned Captain Clark.

“Lord, it looks like a good meal walking away,” Captain Lewis sighed as the sheep disappeared. Drouillard was soon on the slope, to the left and heading higher in pursuit of the sheep. All eyes were turned on him. He was climbing a series of zigzag ledges that were occasionally narrow enough to throw him into view. It looked impossible. It was a sheer precipice. Suddenly from above came a
thunk-a-thunk-a
sound as rock pounded down the mountainside. The men gasped as the sheep passed right over their heads and struck a slope of scree behind them. Climbing downward from the argillite outcrops was the small, agile figure of Old Toby.

Seeing the way things were going with Drouillard and the loose rock, Old Toby had carefully climbed above the men to a shelf of rock, and being able to see the sheep when they could not, Old Toby had moved close enough to make a magnificent shot with his bow and arrow.

It was the years this old ram had spent climbing around these hills that made him the toughest meat any of them had ever tasted, but the soup made from the mutton was delicious.

During the day, while the mutton lasted, Old Toby stretched the sheep’s hide between the rocks at each stop, and at odd times he cut and sewed four moccasins for Scannon, for the dog’s feet were bruised by sharp stones.

And long after the mutton was gone, and the outfit no longer slept with full bellies, each evening Old Toby told how he, with a bow and arrow, had made the magnificent shot that had kept the white men from starving. “Smoking sticks,
paugh!
No good for sheep.” But the feat was not repeated.

On Friday, September 13,1805, the expedition came upon several hot springs, which Old Toby called Indian baths. A frenzy of scrubbing and scouring and washing possessed them.

Sacajawea bathed and scrubbed her clothes clean with sand, and bathed Pomp and scrubbed his clothes, hanging them on the stunted subalpine firs growing near the blazing fire York had built up. She rinsed her hair until it made a squinching sound between her fingertips. Then she bathed Pomp again and poured handfuls of water down his round back. “You must swim,” she told him.

Others waited patiently, pleased with the sight of Janey giving Pomp a swimming lesson, and though it was an indulgence, for already snow was smothering the peaks, they camped early that day and Captain Lewis led a hunting party to scour the rocky ledges for game. Old Toby found a small shrub with curled, oval, fragrant leaves. He skinned the leaves from the stems and urged York to boil them with water. It made a tolerable tea. Everyone sipped, but remained hungry. No game was found, and tempers grew short.

Shannon lost his patience with Sacajawea when she could not pronounce the English word
tamarack.
“Land alive, Janey! You’re as bad as a schoolchild. Stop fidgeting. Sit down.” She sat down meekly and quickly.

“I see a tree. It is a tamarack,” he said.

Sacajawea knew he could not see it. There were no trees that tall among the rocks here.

“Janey!” Shannon’s voice darted at her, as brisk as his knife. She jumped as though he’d pricked her.

“I see a tree. It is a tam-aw-rack,” she recited, and then stopped Captain Clark from picking up Pomp, who was crawling near the fire.

“No, no. Do not stop him,” she said. “He must learn to make his own decisions, take the responsibility for his actions. It is like I hear you tell the men.”

“At this incredibly early age?” gasped Captain Clark, rubbing his chin. Sacajawea could hear the whiskers scraping like two dry pines in a high wind.

“When he begins to crawl, no one cries
no
and drags him from the enticing red of the coals. I am watching that he does not burn. He must learn himself the bite of fire and to let it alone. See how he jerks his hand back?”

The baby whimpered, and with a tear-wet face brought his burned fingers to Captain Clark, who was nearest him, for soothing. Clark immersed the baby fingers into his now-cold tea.

“See,” Sacajawea continued. “His eyes do not turn in anger toward his mother or any other person who might have pulled him back, defeating his natural desire to test, to explore. His anger is now against the red coals. So—he might creep back another time, but cautiously. So—soon he will discover where warmth becomes burning.” She let her hands fall into her lap, and Clark handed the child to her. Automatically Sacajawea pulled aside the slit tunic, cupped out her left breast, and gave it to the papoose. The child’s lips quickly found her dark-brown nipple. When Pomp fell asleep, Sacajawea took soft cattail-down mixed with dried moss from a leather box and pressed generous handfuls between Pomp’s chubby legs and wrapped him in his blanket. The feathery down made the baby sneeze, but he did not wake.

“Go on, Janey.” Shannon stopped whittling and looked around. “La, what’s come over you? I vow you ain’t got your mind on learning.”

She thought his neck seemed too thin to support his head. His ears protruded. He hadn’t shaved for the last few days, and there was a trace of blond hair on his pale upper lip and thin cheeks. She wondered if he were sickening with this teaching.

“You can go,” Shannon told her. “I’m in no mind for lessons, either. My mind’s plaguing me this last hour with thoughts of food we don’t have. Well—” Shannon picked up the knife and swung it toward the ground, making it stick. “Oh, get along now, Janey.”

Other tempers were short. Pat Gass swore, “God grant there’s no worse place on earth than this cursed damned mountain country.” And he said more to make the air blue as his horse stumbled during the night picketing and lost its load, sending the packs flying in every direction.

That night, cold and hungry, they killed the youngest colt for supper.

For several days beyond Colt-killed Creek,
⁴
the Nez Percé trail continued to head west, following ridges, not valleys. The view they saw when they finally reached the stony plateau was the view of a new world.

In the foreground the land dropped steeply through a thrust into a gorge that seemed to converge to a central trough. But it was not the foreground that held Sacajawea’s eyes—it was the immense, airy sweep of the snowfields and ice pinnacles beyond, and the tall peaks soaring into the blue.

Soon most of the men had rubbed ashes under their eyes and put bear’s oil on their arms and necks to avoid sunburn. The mountain sunlight was dangerous.

“I doubt I’d burn much,” said Shannon. “I’m already brown as I can get, but just to be safe—” He took a handful of ashes from the dead fire and rubbed them on his face and forehead. He stared at the scene without a word now, without even an exclamation. At last he drew a long breath and edged over near Sacajawea. “God!” he said. “Them’s the biggest mountains in North America, and only you and me has seen them, and a few of the men, and maybe some Indians, like Old Toby and Cutworm. It’s going to be a blasted country to travel. Lookee there at that black gash in that dip. I reckon that’s where the Columbia River flows, and it’ll be hell’s own job to get down to it.”

The cold blue sky beyond the mountains dulled to a colder gray, and all light went out of the landscape. More cold weather was trying to get through; it was not making much headway, but the pressure was there; a switch in the wind and the snow would be driving down the Bitterroot Valley by nightfall. They made camp against that possibility and put up elk-skin lean-tos. The snow came as ice splinters. Soon there was nothing but white around them, except the tops of the little gnarled firs.

The next morning, Old Toby pushed large squares of wool pads cut from the old mountain sheep’s hide into the hands of each member of the expedition. He explained carefully how to rub cheeks and noses with the oily wool pad to prevent frostbite. He made certain the wool moccasins on Scannon were secure.

That day the thin, cold air seemed to cut through their clothing, but the sun was out for six hours. Sacajawea, after sniffing the air, pronounced on the weather. The first snow had fallen, so there would be three days of cold and more snow, then for maybe ten days there would be a mild, bright spell, then the big snows and fierce cold would come. The mild spell would enable the party to finish the ascent before the deep cold set in.

“Where’d you learn that?” asked Drouillard.

“I have listened to Old Toby tell it to Cutworm,” she said.

Old Toby and Cutworm rested after the day on the trail, but this evening they were sorting out many small pliable willow sticks in the snow.

“And where did they find those?” asked Drouillard, pointing to the willows.

“They have carried them in that large pack for this time on the mountain,” said Sacajawea. “They knew we would have deep snow above the timberline.”